


i'll chew you up and i'll spit you out.

by orphan_account



Series: oh dear diary. [1]
Category: Little Mix (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, BFFs, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Lesbian Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eighteen years old Perrie Edwards thinks she knows herself, and at twenty one she knows that is no longer true, but she does know Louis. She's always known Louis, would know him anywhere at any time and would always, always love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll chew you up and i'll spit you out.

**Author's Note:**

> my very first one direction/little mix fic. part one of a series, but also works as a standalone, hence the completed status. thank you for taking the time to read!

Looking back, she can remember the first time she'd seen him. He is scrawny, and shy, with sweeping hair and a pointed face. Bent over an open diary settled on crossed legs, sweatpants ridden up to his knees and long calves lean and dusted with hair. At eighteen years old Perrie Edwards thinks she knows herself, and at twenty one she knows that is no longer true, but she does know Louis. She's always known Louis, would know him anywhere at any time and would always, always love him. Not in any disgusting smoochy couple-y way, mind. She hasn't got time for that. But as her best friend, her unrelated brother, and her flatmate she'd say she knows him pretty well. Even at eighteen with spots on her chin and a complex left over from secondary school, she knows him well enough six months into their friendship to know when he's hiding something.

“What's wrong with you? You've got a face like a smacked arse.” Which isn't something she's used to. Louis of last week was all smiles and projecting and lines from _Hedda Gabler_ but now he's sat with his knees curled to his chest and the look of a boy who's been crying and doesn't want her to know. This, at twenty one, she remembers as the first time she'd thought of any of her friends as more than just video game characters; only appearing when she was around, but as real people with their own separate lives and problems she cannot fix. It is also the first time she thinks Louis really trusts her because he sniffs, wipes his nose with the heel of his palm and shrugs. 

“Crisis of existence? I dunno.” Mumbled as he tucks his chin down against his chest and she slides to the floor to put her arm around him.  
“It can't be that bad, Lou.” Gently – or as gentle as she can manage – as she rubs his bicep and notes for the millionth time how fucking skinny he is. 

“Come on, we'll go for coffee.” Stands, and barely notices his flinch of terror.

“No! No, God, no we are not going for fucking coffee.” And she pauses, purses her lips and looks down at her stupid best friend. Later she is proud of this deduction, but for now she is vaguely alarmed.

“What? Why? Do you fancy one of the baristas?” Watches the colour drain from his face, then starts to cackle. “Which one? Which one, go on, the one with the tits--,” she gestures, “or the blonde?”

“Neither.” Louis mumbles, shrinking back in on himself and looking very much like he'd like the ground to swallow him up. Perrie pauses again, then doubles over with laughter.

“Liam?! You fancy Liam. Liam. Big dumb puppy Liam!”

“Shut up! I don't want--.”

“Oh, please, this is amazing. We have to go for coffee. We have to.”

“Fuck off, Perrie, no we don't. We have to avoid him so that he doesn't know we exist and never figures it out.”

Later, he will thank her for punching his arm and physically dragging him down to the cafe, all doe eyed and pink cheeked from Liam's laughter and forearms, fingers clasped around a coffee cup which not only says his name but also has a number scrawled across it. Three years later and they're still going strong, and still make her want to vomit from how sticky sickly sweet they are. It doesn't help that H&M is boring at the best of times, that she spends her shifts staring out of the huge glass double doors and across at the hastily put together wooden sign and chalkboard advertising _Nick's Beans._ She hates the fucking name. It had been funny, at first, and now she wants to kick the chalkboard down and scrub the wood back down. It's a Tuesday afternoon, so she knows that any minute now--. 

Yes. Louis raises his head from beneath the counter, places two four-pint bottles of milk on it, then catches her eye and winks before leaning over to take someone’s order. Idiot. And then – yep, there’s Liam, shouldering open the door and grinning and Perrie watches Louis practically melt into the floor. God, she wants to vomit. Preferably all over them. It isn’t that she isn’t happy for them, it’s that she thinks they’re disgusting. She’d never been one for sweets. Sighing, she looks back to the open crossword on the counter, taps her mouth with the end of her pen and inhales through her nose. The entire shop smells of cotton, of synthetic material, of boredom and newspaper ink and she can’t get fucking nine-down.

_M-something-Z-J-something-something._ Looks up to the shop again in time to make eye contact with Louis, who rolls his eyes and taps his watch, then leans up to kiss Liam’s jawbone and take his jumper from the coat-stand. _M-something-Z-J-something-something._ Bites the end of her pen and exhales. The next time she looks up Louis is standing outside her window, both palms and face pressed to the glass, cigarette hanging from his fingers when she’s absolutely sure he quit six weeks ago. As though that matters when he grins, waggles his eyebrows and begins to press his hips in. Rolls her eyes. Perrie is used to this, the flirting, the dynamic. Mimes a thrust up with her knee and has to control her smirk to speak to a customer as Louis, the idiot, draws both of his in and looks suitably pained, then embarrassed as Nick-of-Nick’s-Beans fame wanders past and raises an eyebrow at him. Perrie muffles her giggle with a cough, and the woman looks disgusted as she takes her leggings and receipt, and doesn’t thank her when she wishes her a nice day. Bitch.

“You’re a cunt.” She punches Louis hard in the small of his back and grins as he crumples. “What did Nick say?” It’s five o clock, and she isn’t closing, and so clad in leggings-shirt-denim-jacket-heels she falls into step beside her flatmate as he rubs his spine and puckers his mouth into a pained ‘O’.

“He asked me if Liam was being rough with me.” Perrie’s mouth twists, and Louis pinches her wrist. 

“And you said...?”

“I said no!” She doesn’t like the softness that creeps into his eyes; her mouth twists again, “and that generally I’m rough with him.” 

“Of course you did.” Disbelievingly. Hand – talons and knuckles and sinew – slotting into his elbow, against newly-muscled biceps, and she has to admit even to herself that the relationship with Liam does wonders for his physical fitness. Once upon a time he had been soft from pizza and lazy from naps during the day but now... well, he still likes pizza, and naps during the day, but he’s lithe like a tomcat and usually twice as sharp. Now the smell of smoke hangs off him and makes his breathing slow and steady and she can feel his pulse and fuck, fuck they’re boring. They’re boring but they still race the last of the way home, Louis barrelling into her bodily and shoving her into a hedge so that by the time she catches him with his hands on his knees and back heaving as he pants she’s pulling twigs from her hair and feeling murderous. Storms past him while he laughs, stays silent while he worries and starts to ask her if she’s hurt, then when he panics as she goes into his room.

“Per? Perrie? What’re you doing? Perrie?” She isn’t hurt, not even bruised, and she smiles so sweetly as she strips the duvet from his bed and tosses it from their fifth-floor balcony down into the shared courtyard below.  
“If there are leaves in my knickers, your pillows go down too.” Louis gapes at her, her chin tilted up, and they stay like that for a handful of minutes before they both begin to cackle. “Can we get Indian tonight?”

They settle for sushi, and True Blood, and Perrie doesn’t finish her ice cream before Louis is standing and pulling on his shoes and heading for the door. Blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Date night with Liam.”

“Oh, are mummy and daddy out?”

“Fuck off, he moved out a month ago.”

“What?!” She nearly drops her bowl as she leaps to stand on the arm of their ratty falling apart sofa. It cracks ominously, is ignored. “Where to?” Louis shifts uncomfortably. Ah. Non-uni friends. 

“With Niall.”

“When’s the party?”

“What?”

“To celebrate his moving out. Having a sex palace all of his own.” She ducks the umbrella thrown at her, and laughs as Louis stomps out of the flat and down the stairs. It takes her two minutes to find a condom, rush to the balcony, and with some very careful aim and a lot of luck, hit the back of his head with it. This does not solve the problem of her own alone-ness (not loneliness. Perrie is very rarely lonely), and nor does stretching herself out across beanbags in her bedroom with both hands in her pyjama bottoms. So instead she pulls on her slippers, pulls up the waistband, and trudges downstairs to knock on Jesy’s door. 

The girl is yawning, rubbing an eye and looking at her blearily when she eventually opens up, and Perrie has been so fucking mind numbingly bored all day that the question – “Lou abandoned you for Liam again?” – gets swallowed up between her lips and across her tongue. Jesy gets her answer in Perrie’s nails on her cheeks, in the strength of her arms as she’s pushed back into her hallway and the bunched muscle of thigh she knows is there when Perrie kicks the front door shut behind her and uses one clawed hand on the soft flesh of her shoulder to bring her to her knees. She doesn’t even bother with the sweettalk, not this time, because she isn’t drunk and hasn’t danced in a month and God, fuck, she just needs something inside or against her and Jesy is darling and kind and good at what she does and all Perrie does is slide her hips out and her top up and her pants are around her ankles – ankle, when she lifts a leg and rests it on the girls shoulder, grins wolfishly at the would-be innocent smile (it would be innocent if they had never done this before, but Perrie knows better) – and then--. Oh. 

Her breath, the tension, leaves her in one short sharp burst as she blooms under Jesy’s fingers. Leans her head back against the door and laughs – not unkindly, never unkindly – as she twines her fingers in her hair and pulls, closer-closer-closer until she hears her mouth part and feels the heat of her breath and then her tongue against her clit, the slide and drag of fingers pretending to be shy and slipping into her. She nearly comes then, but clenches her muscles and her teeth and swivels her hips to make Jesy do it better, do it harder. Uses the ball of her foot to drag her closer, twists her wrist and squeals when her body takes her moan and turns it into vibration, into lust, into pleasure. But then she’s pulling her up, up, stepping out of her trousers as she backs the tiny girl into the wall to suck herself from her tongue. Standing is difficult, her thighs ache from trembling, and Jesy is so prettily flushed and unsure as to why the kisses are happening that pulling her by hair and by wrist through to her bedroom is no trouble at all. Sits on the edge of the bed and spreads her thighs and just... just looks at Jesy until the girl kneels before her again and closes her lips over Perrie’s, at the juncture of her legs, nose pressed to a coarse thatch of hair and exhaling shakily when her hand is combed back into her curls. 

That’s all the encouragement it takes for that tongue to work, to push and part and find its way inside again while teeth brush at nerves and send sparks down to her toes. For fingers to slide through the damp on the muscles of her legs until they too part into the heat between them and scissor until Perrie is tight, knees bent, both hands in Jesy’s hair as she lies back against the mattress and lets her hips rock into her face. 

Perrie is not loud, she’s never been vocal, but Jesy is. Jesy always has been, is always full of laughter and music and stories and for now whimpers and moans all muffled into Perrie’s body as the woman growls through her teeth and comes on her tongue. Grins down at Jesy, fingers still tight against her scalp, easing her away to admire the ruddy wetness on her cheeks, her chin, smeared on her lips. It takes a little gentle coaxing to get her to lie next to her, to let Perrie work two fingers into her while lying between her legs, moving her hips in time to her thrusts until Jesy goes boneless and breathless and smiles elatedly while Perrie murmurs encouragement against her ear, while she kisses and licks at where she’s marked her face, while she leaves marks of a different kind on Jesy’s throat because she has no claim to the girl and yet she’s entirely hers. She drinks down her shout of ecstasy as she comes, one of Perrie’s hands on her hips to hold her down as she sinks (three fingers, now, and if she had a dick she would be excited by the tightness but alas) down to the knuckle and unfurls as Jesy comes undone.

“I love you.” The girl murmurs into her elbow, half an hour later, as Perrie admires the way she can’t see rib or hipbones on her. 

Boring, Perrie doesn’t say.


End file.
